


we walked to the edge but we never leapt

by areunasty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, STRONG TRIGGER WARNING i'm serious, Self-Harm, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areunasty/pseuds/areunasty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks after his world had been turned upside down by Derek Hale and his fucking teeth and brooding eyebrows, Isaac found himself sitting at the scrubbed wooden table in his home. It was dark, and something pitch black and heavy had nestled behind his sternum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we walked to the edge but we never leapt

**Author's Note:**

> PLS read this before u read because if you're triggered by self harm and panic attacks this is not the fic for u. graphic self harm description, throughout but especially at the end, panic attack near the beginning, and overtones of general depression
> 
> i don't know what spawned this but isaac just screams unhappy at me like who! is that cocky there's no reason for it. wolves being able to heal also got me Thinkin.

Two weeks after his world had been turned upside down by Derek Hale and his fucking teeth and brooding eyebrows, Isaac found himself sitting at the scrubbed wooden table in his home. It was dark, and something pitch black and heavy had nestled behind his sternum.

He hadn’t been back since…

He could practically _feel_ the freezer below him, a malignant void not unlike the one he felt in his chest most days. Like Chris Argent had aimed one of his goddamn overpowered guns at his chest and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t empty right now; the presence in his chest was sealing it up, making it hard to breathe.

He hadn’t been back _since_ -

The kitchen smelled like strangers and damp and dust. Isaac didn’t even realise he’d shifted until he looked down to find his claws digging grooves into the table. He drew them away quickly, the panic in his chest and the unfamiliarity of the shift making his movements jerky and wrong. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like it but he tried to, he tried to seem like he loved it, but –

It was hard to keep control when he was so low. He felt like he’d been walking around in a state of half-shift all week, senses too sharp, movements a little too wild, a little too _animal_. Derek hadn’t noticed, because he was about as responsible as a brick and was too wrapped in trying to create his pack to notice Isaac struggling.

He felt a growl rumble up in his throat, the confusing scents of his father and strangers mingled in his nose making his heart beat into his throat, suffocating him. His _father_ , fear and violence, the creeping need to please and the sickly pride when he praised him. He couldn’t get the smell of his father’s blood out of his nose, went to sleep smelling it, woke up with it. The smell was synonymous with guilt now, and Isaac’s breath was whooshing out of him faster than he could claw it in.

The dully noted the chair falling behind him as he stood, the room tilting around him as his senses narrowed to the smell of his father’s cologne and the familiar/unfamiliar damp, cold smell of the freezer, panic balling in his chest and tasting like old spoons on the back of his tongue.

He smelt the blood before he felt the pain, and he was confused for a split second before he realised it was _his_ blood. Through tear glazed eyes he focused on his left forearm, his claws sunk into the pale belly of it and the thick dark blood dripping onto the tiled floors. For a moment, he just stared, mouth open and panting on ragged gasps of air, nostrils flared and his claws, his claws were still in his arm?

Experimentally, he twisted them a little deeper, and the pain and the fresh wave of blood sent a pulse of revulsion to his stomach. Revulsion, but he couldn’t deny the heavy calm that was settling into his bones the deeper he dug. His breath shuddered in his chest, growing slower and steadier as he fixated on the now-bloody mess of his arm. Time seemed to slow, he felt almost as if he was moving in slow motion, watching the blood run over his forearm, drip to the floor agonisingly slowly. Eyes drooped, head rolled on his shoulders in exhaustion and something else, something that made him feel a step away from himself. 

He stopped when he hit bone, and watched as the wounds healed within seconds after he withdraw his claws. He righted the chair, cleaned his blood up, going through the motions mechanically. He felt good, calm and tired, a little apart from himself but that wasn’t a bad thing. How often did Isaac wish he was anything but himself? 

Derek didn’t remark on his hours long disappearance, but his nose wrinkled when Isaac sloped past, aiming for his bed and a dreamless sleep.

“Why d’you smell like blood?” He asked, catching Isaac by the bicep as he tried to get by.

His mind ground slowly, not quite up to date with what was happening. It was always like this after a panic attack, and whatever that whole thing had been earlier. “None of your business.” He managed, trying for sulky but landing firmly in flat. “I’m going to bed.” His forearm still felt tender from the nerves he’d severed, and he cradled it to his belly as he slipped from Derek’s grasp to his bed at the end of the train carriage.

Derek let him go, but Isaac could smell his confusion through the stink of blood in his nose.

\------

It became ritualistic after that. He’d hole up someplace, bathroom at school, the locker room, the woods if he really couldn’t get alone time. Drag his nails through his skin to watch it bleed, then to watch it knit itself back together. It was more a method of coping than a compulsion, a way of calming himself down when he felt sure he was about to snap and wolf out. His anchor became his own pain, and Derek and Scott stopped asking why he always smelt like blood. He knew it didn’t mask the stink of anxiety or sadness, and Scott starting taking him under his wing a little. The pit in his chest remained.

He was in the locker room, and the only sounds were the slow beat of the fan and the creaking of the pipes. Isaac’s breath was harsh in the silence, uneven and raw as he stared at the way the flesh parted under his claws as he raked them up from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. The blood that pumped out sluggishly looked black in the low light, and the smell was making a growl catch in his throat, Pavlovian by this point.

In a minute, the flesh on his arm looked brand new, if a little pink where he’d dug in especially deep. It was almost frustrating that he had no wounds to show for the pain, but mostly freeing in that he never had to worry about anyone finding out.

He was embarrassed of it, as it was such a stupid, melodramatic _teenage_ thing to do, and Isaac had spent a long time cultivating the aloof image he liked to run with. The Isaac he presented to everyone else wouldn’t be caught dead dragging his claws through his arms for the sight and smell of blood, the white-hot pain curling its way into his stomach.

He wondered how deep he’d have to do it in order for it not to heal, thought about Erica’s torn throat and her lifeless eyes. 

The flesh of his arm parted around his claws like butter, and blood spilled forth into the wounds, wet and red like gaping mouths. The pain made his toes curl, a huff of breath leaving his mouth on a noise that he wasn’t sure was pleasure or pain.

He felt himself take a step away from himself, and after that the night was smoother.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading comments r always appreciated


End file.
